I'm fresh out of stories and poems to post. As soon as you send me something wonderful, the posts of Writing In A Woman's Voice will resume. The address to send to is writinginawomansvoice@gmail.com.

In the meanwhile I'll leave you with one of my poems that's been on my mind a lot lately.

The Dragon's Tale

Yes, I took the princess away.

She's hidden up in the mountains.

She's hidden from your strange

world of corsets and obedience

among the yellow flowers.

She's hidden from your male

fantasies among my cousins,

the lithe lizards. She's hidden

from your benevolent contempt

in the moss of morning dew.

You thought I was going to eat her?

* * * * *

"The Dragon's Tale" was first published in The Write Place at the Write Time.

Walking my Dog in Logan Park after Mary Tyler Moore’s Death

by Jan Zlotnik Schmidt

The phone dings in my pocket

as I clutch the leash,

the dog pulling to reach another pup.

Ding again—Mary Tyler Moore dead at 80.

I stop for a moment to read my phone.

Watch a homeless man toss white

scraps of bread to black squirrels

darting this way and that.

The news of her death meshes with

other headlines --Breitbart, the refugee ban,

executive orders, the XL Pipeline—

Doublespeak, lies burning my throat, my gullet.

I protested after Kent State

Sat in against Dow Chemical

Marched against the war in Iraq.

It is that time again.

But Mary and I lived a different world.

Back then, I raced home to watch

 (no DVR dreams deferred for us)

to catch her cool intelligence, independent spirit.

Sometimes my friend and I would go

to Sibleys, try on wigs like alter egos—

I always picked a brown flip with bangs

to cover up my frizzy long hair.

And in the snow in Syracuse

we tossed hats in the air

sure our bodies were ours to control.

Sure we could light up the world with our smiles.

The dog yanks me out of my reverie.

We circle the square again.

Vermont, 13^th Street, Rhode Island,

Logan’s statue, his horse, hovering above us.

In the drizzle and fog, I momentarily lose

my way despite knowing the familiar path.

I look for the red brick Victorian with turrets

my landmark, my way home.

Fearful of circling back

to an unclear future.

WHITE GIRL

by Noelle Sterne

I see you everywhere,

hear you, watch you,

riveted.

Walk? You own the street,

buttocks bumping, swaying, important rhythms,

laughing from the gut with your girlfriends.

Talk? You punch the air:

Come awwwn, girl! Mama gonna getchew!

String out words like song,

flaunt school English,

slur stretch drop letters spurn syllables,

always with that bend of knowing.

Songs? You know all the words—

singles, groups, rappers, crooners, hooters, shouters, praisers,

downloads crammed in devices and heads.

You mouth them everywhere,

dance steps swaying, bumping, careless, sure,

sidewalks, birthdays, gas lines and groceries.

Where you learn?

All my lessons never loosened my legs,

all the teaching never let me go,

all degrees just made me tighter.

But you—

size shape age clothes matty hair don’t matter.

You own the floor—

arms pumping, snaking, rippling, curling,

hands ruling, shaping air,

feet in untaught Jacksonesque synch,

whirls twirls taps twists turns, 

eyes rolling, mouth moving, little grunts,

unmatched bend of importance.

Trouble? Your proud trumpeted history isn’t the only one.

Hoo, you say. What troubles, poor little middle class white girl?

Okay, bloods. Poison of parents’ overexpectations,

best at everything, or no love.

Tyranny of never-let-up lessons

for aunts, neighbors, anyone who’ll listen:

piano-ballet-horseback-skating-cello-ballroom-baking-bowling.

No time for friends or games,

no time for dreams or doodles.

Too much flesh in a thin girls’ world,

too many books in a dumb boys’ world,

always nursing aloneness, watching your  guffawing joy.

Look at me—just a little?

White girl call you sistah?

White girl call you friend?

* * * * *

Author, editor, writing coach, writing workshop leader, and spiritual counselor, Noelle Sterne has published over 400 writing craft articles, spiritual pieces, essays, and short stories. Publications include Author Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Children’s Book Insider, Coffeehouse For Writers, Funds for Writers, InnerSelf, Inside Higher Ed, New Age Journal, Pen & Prosper, Sasee, Story Monsters Ink, The Write Place At the Write Time, Unity Magazine, Writer’s Journal, The Writer, and Writer’s Digest. Academic editor and coach, with a Ph.D. from Columbia University, she helps doctoral students wrestling with their dissertations and publishes articles in several blogs for dissertation writers. Her book Trust Your Life: Forgive Yourself and Go After Your Dreams (Unity Books) contains examples from her practice, writing, and other aspects of life to help readers release regrets, relabel their past, and reach lifelong yearnings. Her book Challenges in Writing Your Dissertation: Coping With the Emotional, Interpersonal, and Spiritual Struggles (Rowman & Littlefield Education, 2015) further aids doctoral candidates to award of their degrees. Website: http://www.trustyourlifenow.com/

RISE AND SHINE

by Mary K O'Melveny

It’s time to Rise and Shine!

My Mother’s voice calls out.

Positive emphasis.

She greets our newest day.

I’m counting the minutes

left to me to wash up,

quickly dress, grab my books,

pens, papers and race out.

The aging yellow school bus

rumbles up the steep hill,

swaying slightly, rough road

a challenge to the best.

I am in a new world

and I am not amused.

Parents will do these things

and never tell you why.

In the wink of an eye

we had landed here, a farm,

Pacific Ocean left

back, blinking, beckoning.

We’re miles from anywhere,

I cried.  NOTHING is here!

Later, I understood

my Mother thought the same.

What WERE we doing here?

She used to sit often

at the little yard goods

store bus stop.  Longingly.

Sometimes it just makes no

difference where the bus

is headed as long as

you’re on it when it goes.

                                                                                                                                   

But of course she never

did get on.  She came back

home.  Made our little meals.

Took in our tales of woe.

Got us up each morning,

her game greeting the same.

I never even knew if 

she bought a bus ticket.

* * * * *

Mary K O'Melveny is a retired labor rights lawyer living in Washington DC and Woodstock NY.  Her poems have been published in various print and on-line journals such as FLARE:  The Flagler Review, Into the Void, Allegro Poetry Magazine and The Offbeat.  Mary's poem "Cease Fire" won the 2017 Raynes Poetry Competition sponsored by Jewish Currents magazine and appears in the anthology "Borders and Boundaries" published by Blue Threads Press.

JURY NOTICE

by Mary K O'Melveny

It came in yesterday,

along with the bills, junk

mail and money requests.

The US District Court

wants to find my Mother.

A Summons for service.

She has dates and numbers.

#03-0723.

Responsibilities.

Questionnaires to fill out.

History to report.

It’s all quite serious.

There are some exceptions,

of course:  infirmity,

age, disability,

volunteer safety jobs,

among others.  One time,

just “female” was enough.

She always wanted this.

Once, she almost made it

but the case got settled.

Another time she had

moved away but she tried

willing herself back there.

She had many questions

about this curious

institution where a

fate can lie in your hands.

The raw power of it –

breathtaking.

Sudden elevation

from the quotidian

to the omnipotent.

Her simple life was filled

with the usual moments,

children, meals and paychecks.

  

The very idea that

her opinions might be

important to someone

outside her sphere

brought a little chill up,

hairs on the neck rising.

The transformational

thought of it all – strangers

suddenly privy to

far away dramas and demons

landing right in their midst,

as if by time machine.

And, as the story lines

unfold like mystery

novels, piecing the clues

together, staring at

the witness box, waiting

for the Perry Mason

denouement.  This would be

The People’s Court with real

people!  The blending and

bonding, weighing, sifting,

verdict emerging like

Botticelli’s Venus.

So, I am glad for the

official interest

in finding my Mother.

She’s been gone four years now.

But I would love to see

her there.  Oath taken.  Not excused.

* * * * *

Mary K O'Melveny is a retired labor rights lawyer living in Washington DC and Woodstock NY.  Her poems have been published in various print and on-line journals such as FLARE:  The Flagler Review, Into the Void, Allegro Poetry Magazine and The Offbeat.  Mary's poem "Cease Fire" won the 2017 Raynes Poetry Competition sponsored by Jewish Currents magazine and appears in the anthology "Borders and Boundaries" published by Blue Threads Press.

MARGARET'S CONFESSION

by Laura Ruth Loomis

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession. And that wasn’t even a real confession. I only told about the little stuff, like yelling at my brother or disobeying the teacher. The kind of things that get you one Our Father and ten Hail Marys. When really I was in a state of sin. Because of me, the Jamisons could have lost their baby forever.

I didn’t mean any harm. I’ve babysat for the Jamisons since Patricia was born. She’s a doll. Of course, when they had Michael, she got jealous. The way kids do, you know. So for her third birthday, her mom and dad wanted to take her out for a special day. It was the first time they ever left Michael with a sitter, and they chose me. They trusted me.

Everything was fine at first. I put him down to sleep and turned on Baywatch. I started getting this prickly feeling at the back of my neck. He was so quiet. I should have checked him. Stupid me, I waited for a commercial.

He was blue. Just blue. I’ve never seen a face that color before. He wasn’t moving. I picked him up and shook him, and still he didn’t breathe.

I’m so sorry, Father. I didn’t know what to do. I mean I did know, but I panicked. I grabbed the phone and called 911.

The woman had the nicest voice. She told me I had to calm down; it was Michael’s only chance. First she had me make sure his little heart was beating. It was hard to tell, with mine pounding so hard, but I found a pulse. Then I stuck my finger in his mouth to see if he was choking on something. I couldn’t feel anything there. She said to put my mouth over Michael’s mouth and nose and blow a tiny puff of air, very slowly. His face was so cold. I wanted to stop and just cry. But I did what she told me, blew and then watched his chest go back down. Another deep breath for me, and then I did it again. And again. Nothing mattered in the world except tiny, tiny breaths into his little body. I could still hear the Baywatch theme music from the next room. Breathe and blow, over and over. And then she was telling me to unlock the door for the paramedics.

I paged his parents from Saint Luke’s, and waited. And waited. At first I thought the doctor would come out any minute and say he was fine. But time just dragged on and on. Nobody would answer my questions. I sat there in the waiting room, staring at a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus. There were two women in the room with me, crying and talking loud in Spanish. I tried to pray the rosary, but I’d forget where I was and have to start over.

Finally the Jamisons got there with Patricia, asking what happened. Was Michael okay? I said I didn’t know. But really I knew he was dead. Just knew it. Why else would they not tell me anything? Mr. Jamison went to find the doctor. And that’s when Mrs. Jamison asked me.

"Did you baptize him?"

I’ve heard it a hundred times: in an emergency, baptize first and then get help. Mom made sure I knew that before I ever got to babysit. And I knew Michael hadn’t been baptized yet, because they were planning a big ceremony for the next month.

Father, I lied. I was staring right at the statue of the Virgin Mary. I’ve never told a lie like that in my life. But how could I tell her that her Michael, her beautiful baby, would never get to heaven and it was all my fault?

And then Mr. Jamison came back with the doctor, and he said Michael was fine. The doctor even said, "This young lady saved your son’s life. She really kept her head." And there they were thanking me, after what I’d done!

I’ve been holding my breath for a month now. I even tried to think of a way to sneak in and baptize him, just in case. But of course they weren’t leaving him with anyone, not after what almost happened. And I didn’t confess, so I would have been stuck in purgatory forever if I died this month. But that’s only fair.

This morning they finally had a real baptism, with a priest and godparents and everything. I almost didn’t go. I wanted to say I was sick, but that would have been another lie. So I went, and I’m glad I did. I got to see the water touch Michael’s forehead, and hear the priest say, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Now I know Michael’s safe.

I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, Father. No penance would ever be enough.

One Our Father and ten Hail Marys? Really, Father? Really?

* * * * *

"Margaret's Confession" was first published in Spanish Moss.

The fourth Moon Prize* goes to Mia Avramut's haunting story "Tin Cans"—backdating to the full moon of December 13, 2016. Congratulations on an unforgettable story, Mia Avramut.

Tin Cans

by Mia Avramut

They occupied the city after the city was already bombed to nothingness, the fire bells silenced, the last dogs and rats eaten. My Gianni and my Bruno cry in their sleep and when they wake they dream of steaming heaps of mashed potatoes topped with parmigiano and ham, but all we have left is a bar of chocolate someone threw from a passing truck. My boys shouldn't have to go forage for mushrooms in a minefield, and I shouldn't lie awake remembering the ossobucco their father and I would share when we were courting.

My neighbor Maria – she is in bigger trouble than us, she has five to feed. She told me she knows how to get food, and it's at the City Hall, near the army headquarters. I tame my hair in a butterfly-shaped updo, and wear my good skirt that's a tad too long, and short white socks. I want to kiss Bruno and Gianni and their father, asleep, but cannot bring myself to do it. My heart beats faster and faster although I walk slowly through the quiet streets where sooty houses don't have roofs or many sides either. Here and there a chimney stands out like a scarecrow.

A big truck full of army rations is parked right in front of the building. Soldiers help themselves to armfuls of tin cans. The hall where our Mayor used to dwell has broken crystal chandeliers, bullet-ridden walls, windows painted thick white, and shiny marble floors. It crawls with soldiers carrying tin cans. Women are lined up with their backs to the pockmarked wall. At their feet I see small stacks of cans. Some have more than others. They are well-washed and look like they could be on their way to the market in times of real peace. I understand a soldier can get a woman by adding a tin can to her pile. I take my place in line, but cannot look straight ahead and I half-turn to the corner.

Some men are more eager than others and elbow their way to the front, but once there many lose interest, or courage. They seem to ponder. Oh, there is much muffled laughter, but none of us women smile. It happens nevertheless, without anyone showing flesh. Fair enough.

I glimpse my neighbor Maria. She now faces the wall, and a tipsy soldier stands behind her, drops the tin can, lifts her skirt, unbuttons and pushes in. Her fingertips to the wall, she thrusts her head back like a crane while the man jogs his rump. It's over quickly. I take heart.

As he leaves, he bites her neck. Not a love bite. My heart sinks. Then my knees weaken, as I see a blond tall one head toward me. I turn to the wall so I don't see his face. I feel his breath on my nape, and smell brandy. There is an inch between me and him and I don't know what to do. He whispers something, but all I can understand is a woman's name, Ellen or Helene. Then I feel a light touch on my shoulder, and hear footsteps departing. There is a tin can at my feet, and it's sardines. My mouth waters. The man's friends laugh. The echo reverberates through the big hall.

It doesn't end here. I need the sardines. Need eases me into it. An hour later I head home, to my Gianni and my Bruno. I will soon forget, do it again, soon forget. And maybe I'll like it, too. I'm no angel. I'm clutching tightly to my chest a scarf full of tin cans still moist with sweat. Nobody can snatch it from me. I'll wear my nightie in a bit. And no more children, Jesú Maria, no more children. We will eat a few more days.

* * * * *

The Moon Prize ($91) is awarded once a month on the full moon for a story or poem posted in Writing In A Woman's Voice during the moon cycle period preceding the full moon. I don't really want this to be competition. I simply want to share your voices. And then I want to pick one voice during a moon cycle for the prize. I fund this with 10% of my personal modest income. I wish I could pay for each and every poem or story, but I am not that rich. (Yet?) For a little while only there will be two awards each month, on the day of the full moon and the day after, until I catch up with past postings.

Why 91? 91 is a mystical number for me. It is 7 times 13. 13 is my favorite number. (7 isn't half bad either.) There are 13 moons in a year. I call 13 my feminist number, reasoning that anything that was declared unlucky in a patriarchal world has to be mysteriously excellent. Then there are 4 times 91 days in a year (plus one day or two days in leap years), so approximately 91 days each season. In some Mayan temples there are or were 91 steps on each of four sides. Anyway, that's where the number 91 comes from, not to mention that it's in the approximate neighborhood of 100.